Full Circle
by aml13
Summary: John finally realizes what Sherlock did for him by shooting Magnussen and his true feelings finally come around. SPOILERS through HLV, pre-slash, one-shot


SPOILERS THROUGH HIS LAST VOW

Post HLV – I was a little disappointed with the way John handled this entire episode. I feel like he didn't fully understand what Sherlock did for him, not to mention all the subtext from this series. So here's a one shot-drabble-I didn't proof story that I just needed to write about John coming full circle again. Hope you enjoy!

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson – step away from that man!"

"Merry Christmas!"

BANG!

"Get away from me, John! Stay way back!"

Get away from me, John… Get away from me, John… Get away from me… John.

John Watson sat up in bed, his skin bleeding sweat. This wasn't like his dreams about the war, this was worse, much much worse. They were frequent, almost every other night and they were slowly draining the life out of him, he just couldn't pinpoint why.

He glanced over at Mary, lying next to him and the sight churned his stomach. There was once a time she'd made him smile, when his stomach held butterflies rather than sickness. But that time had since passed.

Sure, he had forgiven her. She went looking for exactly what he had too – a normal life. She had found him at his lowest point and brought him back to this world. She complimented him in every way; loved his strengths and even more adored his weaknesses. He was a stronger person with her, a normal person in a normal love affair.

He should have known better. He's not normal. There is a reason he joined Sherlock Holmes in the first place, because deep down he couldn't live without that rush. In turn, he saw his wife couldn't either.

John wished he would dream about her again, like he did before Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead. Now, all he can dream about is Sherlock. His best friend, the man his wife had shot, the man who managed to pull through yet again.

In hindsight, John realized that he hadn't seemed too distraught when Sherlock was lying in a hospital bed, clinging onto life. Why should he have been? The bloody bastard had already died and come back once – Sherlock Holmes beats death. Sherlock Holmes cannot die.

Now, his breathing changed to short staccato intakes of air, as if all the oxygen was being sucked from the room. John knew the pattern well; panic attacks struck him often during his first few weeks in Afghanistan. He'd learned how to cope. But tonight, coping was difficult; no, coping was impossible while he slept next to the woman who had nearly taken from him the man he…

John needed to get out of the room, it had started to spin and he was drowning in the process. _Go slow, walk toward the door, down the stairs, reach into the vase on top of the mantle, shoes, coat, outside – ah, fresh air._

John walked down the deserted city streets, and pulled from his pocket the packet of cigarettes he'd taken from the vase. As a doctor, he knew he shouldn't smoke, but ever since he discovered the woman his wife really was – well, now he knows why Sherlock was so into them. Of course, Mary doesn't know, neither does Sherlock, and he never smokes in the house because of the little one on the way. Only on nights like this, when something is gnawing at his insides and he can't escape the feeling of dread.

He shook it off, "probably Moriarty." John liked to tell himself the nightmares, the panic attacks, and the churning in his stomach is all because **that** man resurfaced; the one man capable of stripping Sherlock Holmes from his life. But it's not that. No, since the day he took over every television in London, there's been no sign of the man, and Sherlock has been looking.

John had never seen Sherlock so closed off, not particularly from John but from the world. 221b had become a warzone. It wasn't that Sherlock believed Moriarty had possibly survived shooting himself point blank, it was that in his two year span of tracking down every loose end in Moriarty's network, he had missed something, someone that could bring that ghost back.

John's breathing picks up again; another one. He puts out the cigarette, probably not helping, and tries to clear his mind. Instead, he replays Sherlock telling him goodbye on the roof of St. Bart's; the emptiness in his voice, a hint of genuine sadness, and then he's falling.

John's back slides down a lamp post, and he hits the ground, head in hands. He's sobbing, legitimately sobbing, not like a man but a boy. Why does the memory of that day hit him like a punch in the gut? No, worse that that, it's like a knife's being twisted inside him.

All those emotions Sherlock **doesn't** have revealed themselves in that phone call and it's ripping John apart. Why? He took time, he moved on, he recovered.

The memories still themselves, and John finally takes a shaky deep breath until:

"John, there's something I should say, I meant to say always and never have…"

Those emotions, that Sherlock keeps so wonderfully repressed – that voice, that empty, sad voice –

"…since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now…"

John's brow furrows at the thought of Sherlock's last words to him before he was to fly off to Siberia or Eastern Europe or wherever it was Mycroft was sending him.

"Why was Sherlock so sad? It wasn't like the last time. The last time he sounded like that, he was going to…

…die."

John's mind is spinning, working. Could he have been so blind? So closed off? So idiotic?

_Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again… Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again… Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again… Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again…_

"Oh Jesus Christ," Watson says aloud to no one in particular. He stumbling to his feet now and whipping out his phone. "A car. Now!" he says bluntly to the person on the other line.

John's waiting in the cold, his hand pressed to his temple in thought, pain, agony, a little of all three.

"You fucking idiot," he chastises himself. "You stupid twat."

His feet shuffle impatiently, until an unmarked sedan pulls up. John waits no time getting in, surprised to see Mycroft sitting across from him.

"You sounded quite urgent on the phone, figured I would save us both the time."

The car drives off and John doesn't care where it's headed. He takes a minute to compile the thoughts darting around his brain. After a moment, he's gives a slight smirk.

"I knew it. I knew when he went back to Baker Street, untouched, unharmed, un-anything something was wrong. You don't just bloody shoot one of the most powerful men in England and get away with it."

"That is true."

"I thought it was you. I thought you had pulled out the big guns, made a few deals, he'd do a mission for Queen and country and then – a blank slate. But, not even you have that power."

"Contrary to popular belief John, my brother and I are simply human. Well, maybe not simply."

"Six months," John pauses, momentarily pained and letting it sink in. "Six months, he wasn't going to come back from. Was he?"

Mycroft studies the man next to him; as good as he is, John _knows_ and there is no use hiding what is of inconsequential knowledge now. Sherlock didn't leave and said mission was given to another target. Over and done.

"It's hard to say really…"

John looks at Mycroft, jaw clenching slightly. Mycroft can see him tensing and continues.

"…yes, the odds were against him. It was unlikely that he would return alive. One life, for another."

John lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. As Mycroft's words sink in, he doesn't nearly have the mental strength to argue over that last sentence, nor does he have the physical stability to punch Mycroft square in the face.

"Why? Why didn't he tell me?"

Mycroft gives John a knowing look. "You wouldn't have let him go, not again."

John gives a slight laugh, blinking back tears, fully registering that every word Mycroft is saying is the truth. He'd barely made it through last time. Then another look registers on John's face, as he finally understands exactly what Sherlock gave up for _him_. Mycroft interrupts the thought from going further.

"Don't blame yourself John, Sherlock's a big boy, he makes his own decisions. I don't always agree with them but then he doesn't seem to care about me."

The car came to a stop, but John didn't notice. Sherlock's vow at the wedding, Magnussen falling over dead, and his last conversation with the man spiraled in his head. He wanted to throw up, and Mycroft seemed to notice as he leaned over John and opened the door. Gasping for air, John stumbled onto the sidewalk, but instead of keeling over, he recognized his surroundings. The door to the car shut, and Mycroft rolled down the window.

"I've never seen him happier than I have when he's with you. Don't expect any other blessing on my behalf, this is one area my brother understands much more than I," and with that the car drove off into the night.

John looked up and saw the knocker turned slightly on the door. The pain in his heart grew as he realized just how much he missed this place. Gathering his strength, and maybe courage he walked toward the door.

John let himself into the flat upstairs, it was dusty and dark but the lamp in their sitting room was on. He turned the corner, and Sherlock looked up at him from his chair. John stood there in silence for a minute, wondering why this was such a hard thing for him to do.

"You said you had something to tell me, before you got on the plane," John said. His voice sounded calm but his heart rate had increased exponentially. Sherlock simply stared at him back, his eyes burning _something_ into John's soul, "What was it?"

After a second, Sherlock snaps from that moment of reverie and looks down at his feet, this doesn't go unnoticed. "I don't remember," he says casually.

John actually laughs out loud. "Don't remember? You're Sherlock Holmes, you remember everything. Don't think I didn't notice this either," John gestures to Sherlock's current position.

"What?"

"Breaking eye contact, head down - you're lying."

Sherlock can help but submit to a grin, "Such excellent deductions, John." His voice oozes with sarcasm.

"Don't get cute. Go on, say it."

Sherlock looks up again at John, his eyes masking sadness, guilt, longing, hope and John's breath hitches in his chest. Had Sherlock looked at him that way before? Sherlock's silence adds to the growing tension; John can feel his hand start to tighten.

"Don't make me beat it out of you," John says playfully, but he's very serious.

Sherlock's eyes start to study John's face, his expression shifts to nervousness, actual apprehension. His brow furrows, lips tighten, this is just as hard for Sherlock as it is for John. Finally,

"John… I was so alone."

The look Sherlock is giving him, breaks John's heart. He didn't know he could feel anything like this, and much less from his best friend. Sherlock inhales quickly, betraying his own emotion.

"I wasn't lying at your wedding. It's always you John Watson. I love you…"

There is a great silence in the flat, and John has the urge to scream those words back at him, but he holds it in for one, two, three seconds… then Sherlock speaks again.

"I'm in love with you, John. You keep me right."

Sherlock, breaks eye contact once again, his eyes now darting around the room trying to find something of interest. John stands quietly, but inside his heart is hammering. He's not gay, or he wasn't gay, or he thinks he's not gay but something in the words Sherlock just said make him smile. And for once, he doesn't try and hold anything back, he doesn't try and stop himself, he just lets go and responds,

"I love you too, Sherlock." The detective turns his attention back to John, and can't help but respond to the doctor's smile with one of his own. All the turmoil John had felt, the sickness, the revulsion, the hate - his stomach was no longer in a knot, that feeling of dread was gone.

"But?" Sherlock interrupted John's bliss, with a question it took him a moment to fully understand.

"No," the next words John utters with conviction. "I love **you**, Sherlock. I've been so blind."

Sherlock's smile grows, and he lets out a genuine laugh, "As ever, you see but do not observe."

John can't stop his feet from moving; Sherlock stands just in time to feel the full embrace of John's arms around his neck, and doesn't hesitate to hug him back. John breathes in Sherlock for the first time, and wondered why he ever waited so long. Hidden from view, Sherlock's eyes grow glassy and red as he tightens his grip around John.

After a minute, they break apart, blush creeping onto both their faces as they stare at each other with a renewed happiness. Baker Street finally feels right again. Sherlock clears his throat, that boyish grin on his face-

"Well, should you tell Mrs. Hudson, or should I?"


End file.
